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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456365">A Study in Vinyasa</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares'>Yuliares</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Yoga, Fluff, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:47:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,724</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26456365</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuliares/pseuds/Yuliares</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John first meets Sherlock at a yoga class.</p><p>Sherlock is the instructor.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Study in Vinyasa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The door had “Pure Yoga” stylishly splashed across it in glossy paint. Gripping his cane tightly, John Watson wavered for a good 20 seconds before setting his jaw and pushing forward, flinching as an overhead bell tinkled brightly. The studio was bright - almost blindingly so - with a riot of vibrant green plants strategically placed along the windows facing the street. A particularly large one was right next to him. It looked fake.</p><p>John pinched a leaf roughly between his fingers and felt immediately guilty as it tore slightly. Not fake.</p><p>A young woman - girl, really - beamed at him from behind the front desk. “Here for the 8am class?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah. I called ahead, under Watson?”</p><p>She tapped at a screen while he fidgeted. She couldn’t be much out of secondary school. God, he felt old. Old and tired. “There you are - all set! First time?”</p><p>“That obvious?” </p><p>She laughed, high and clear as the bell over the door. “Just relax, you’ll be fine. Leave your street shoes by the mat, please!”</p><p>John clenched his hand around the top of his cane and forced himself to smile back. He was pretty sure it was a smile, anyways. He had been good at those, once.</p><p>Shuffling over to the large floor mat by the wall, John toed off his shoes with a grunt, and - oh, hell. He gave an embarrassed grunt as he noticed one of his socks had a hole, his little toe awkwardly peeking out from the frayed gap. Was he supposed to take the socks off too? He glanced back at the receptionist, eyes glued to the phone in her hand.</p><p>He kept them on. The floors would be cold, he reasoned. He pushed open the second set of doors, revealing a smooth wood floor and walls painted in light blues and yellows. </p><p>Calm colors. </p><p>John scowled at them.</p><p>As he feared, he was glaringly out of place - a gaggle of young, unlined faces in tank tops and ponytails. Though - oh, there was an older couple, in the corner. Still, they looked to be in reasonably good shape. The woman had a sweatband that matched her stretchy yoga pants. Clearly the active sort.</p><p>Not the sort that limped around and struggled with stairs.</p><p>There was a furl of movement… oh, yoga mats. A glance around the room - everyone had mats out. Mats they had clearly brought themselves, from home.</p><p><em> Stupid </em>, he thought savagely, and then - relaxed. He wasn’t prepared, and that meant he could leave. He could tell his therapist he’d tried, honestly tried.</p><p>Relieved, John curled his hand around the handle of his walking stick and made an about-face - only to be brought abruptly short under the arresting stare of a tall man standing uncomfortably close to him.</p><p>“Excuse m-” John began, adrenaline making his tone harsher than he intended, but was immediately interrupted.</p><p>“There’s a mat in the corner to your right,” said the man imperiously, eyes skimming over the top of his head and into the large studio. His voice was surprisingly deep. “Go grab it, find a space on the floor, and you should be all set.”</p><p>“Oh,” said John. “No, I was just-”</p><p>“Leaving, yes, but now you’ve got a mat, so there’s no reason.” interrupted the man again, and finally brought his eyes down to meet John’s. They were sharp and bright. When John just stared at him in disbelief, he scowled and made a little shooing motion with his hands. “Go on, then.”</p><p><em> Rude! </em> thought John, feeling rather indignant. But since the man was all but body-blocking the door, he saw no other route but to turn around and head to the corner indicated, where indeed, there was a plush grey yoga mat already rolled out. John cautiously leaned down to tug one corner forward a bit, where he might have a better view of the instructor while still remaining in the back.</p><p>He turned to look over his good shoulder. The tall man, his dark curling hair tumbling around his face, was still guarding the door. No chance of escaping then.</p><p>John set his cane down first, then carefully lowered himself down onto the mat. He made sure to keep his eyes downward - he didn’t want to see the curiosity and pity from the other attendees, a crippled stranger showing up out of nowhere.</p><p>He was staring dully at the hole in his sock when the lights dimmed, and the door was pulled firmly shut behind the tall man, who now strode forward confidently. “Thank you for coming to class today,” he said flatly, sounding bored. “I’m afraid Janine has had some unexpected car troubles, so I will be teaching class for her today. My name is Sherlock, and I’m another instructor at this school. I understand this is a beginners class.”</p><p><em> Sherlock,</em> thought John. It seemed fitting - a strange name for a strange man.</p><p>Sherlock reached the small podium at the front of the class, and tapped at a phone. A low swell of violin music rose, and he opened the small door to pull out a shockingly bright pink yoga mat, which he rolled out and settled gracefully onto.</p><p>This time, when he spoke, his voice was completely different. “When you’re ready to start, please meet me in child’s pose,” he intoned, his voice deeper, almost rhythmic. “Start on your hands and knees, with hands stacked under your shoulders. Now, bring your feet together and pull back to shift your body down towards your heels, and stretch your arms forward. Relax… sink into it. This is your home base. No matter where we are in class, if you need a break or a rest, or for any reason, you can always return here.”</p><p>John watched him demonstrate, and carefully angled his body into this… shape. He did not feel relaxed.</p><p>“I will be offering hands-on adjustments during this class. If you would prefer not to have hands-on assistance, please raise your hand now, and I will know to respect your space.”</p><p>Looking around, everyone else seemed to know what was going on, and had their heads down. Quickly, John raised his hand.</p><p>“Thank you,” said Sherlock after a beat, and John lowered his hand gratefully. “Now, I want us all to take a unifying breath…”</p><p>~</p><p>“And how did Janine’s class go?”</p><p>“I’m sorry?” asked John, pulling his mind back from where it had been tracing the mug stains on the table in front of him.</p><p>His therapist gave him a tight smile, pen tapping against the clipboard on her lap.</p><p>“The yoga class, John? You said you went.”</p><p>“Oh, that. Yes. It was… fine. Had a substitute teacher, a bloke.”</p><p>“Do you think you’ll go again?”</p><p>John stared at her. He’d left the class feeling awkward, embarrassed, and vaguely nauseous.</p><p>“Don’t think it’s for me, no.” he said.</p><p>“John. It’s important to find a physical activity.”</p><p>Again, John thought back to the yoga class. He remembered the single cup of coffee he’d managed to choke down sloshing uncomfortably in the gut he’d somehow managed to gain despite hardly eating. </p><p><em> Lack of exercise</em>, indeed, and Harry’s lumpy couch rose in the back of his mind. Tearing that monstrosity apart would be good physical activity. But then where would he sleep, tossing and turning, before waking with an uncomfortable crick in his neck? He needed the awful thing to hide behind, pretending not to notice as Harry snuck in past 2am with whisky on her breath. </p><p>Every day was the same - a bowl of cereal, hours spent listlessly poking through online job postings. A purposeless walk, to get out of the house. A shower, a sandwich, falling asleep to bad telly, waking with a crick in his neck, aaaaand repeat.</p><p>With every passing day John felt less qualified to function as a normal person.</p><p>It felt like he was going mad. At least in Afghanistan he had a purpose. A job, a duty, people who depended on him. There was no room for doubt, out there in the sands and the sun. You just <em> were </em>.</p><p>He wasn't anything, here.</p><p>~</p><p>“John!” called a vaguely familiar voice from across the street. “John Watson!”</p><p>John looked up in surprise. There was a man waving at him - “Mike?” he asked, quietly, and then louder, “Mike Stamford!”</p><p>“You’re back in London!”</p><p>“Ah, yes. Yes,” agreed John. “Returned rather recently.”</p><p>“Good, good. Settling back in?”</p><p>“Working on it. Looking for a place but, you know. Not many people looking for a roommate who-” <em> screams in the night </em> “-this time of year,” he finishes lamely.</p><p>“You know, it’s funny you should mention that…”</p><p>~</p><p>“St. Barts!” Mike Stamford proclaimed jovially as he held the door open for John. “I imagine it looks quite different from when you were here.”</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>“My acquaintance is in the labs, I’ll introduce you. He usually leaves people with quite the impression.”</p><p>“Good or bad?”</p><p>Mike chuckled. “Best you decide for yourself.”</p><p>~</p><p>“Sherlock,” John said in surprise.</p><p>The head leaning over the microscope popped up.</p><p>“You know each other?” said Mike, sounding rather surprised.</p><p>“Not… really,” said John. “I took a class of his.”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as they stared at him, then abruptly he straightened. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. Tuesday.”</p><p>Sherlock had not remembered him, John realized with a sinking feeling, before shaking it off. That was stupid, why would a substitute teacher remember every face in an unfamiliar class?</p><p>Sherlock swiftly stepped around the corner of the table to offer his hand to John.</p><p>“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked intently.</p><p>“I’m sorry?” John said faintly.</p><p>“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock repeated impatiently. “Where did you serve?”</p><p>“Afghanistan, but-” he turned to Mike, confused. “You told him about me?”</p><p>“Not a word,” Mike assured him. “Didn’t even know you were back until I ran into you ten minutes ago.”</p><p>John turned back to Sherlock, who was... bouncing on his heels and looking rather expectant.</p><p>“How did you know?” he asked, and Sherlock grinned like a cat presented with a particularly fat flightless bird.</p><p>And that was how he properly met Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>~</p><p>“So you’re a yoga teacher who takes classes at St. Bart’s?”</p><p>“Wrong.”</p><p>“Okay, you’re a yoga teacher who… teaches at St. Bart’s?”</p><p>“Wrong again. Really, John, do I <em> look </em> like a yoga teacher?”</p><p>“...you did on Tuesday. When you were teaching that yoga class.”</p><p>Sherlock snorted. “I am a <em> part-time </em> yoga instructor. I am a full-time detective.”</p><p>“A detective?</p><p>“Consulting detective. Only one in the world. I take on my own clients, as well as cases from the Met.”</p><p>“And the yoga is your… side gig?”</p><p>“Don’t be dull. I teach because I’m good at it, obviously.” Sherlock turned away abruptly. “Do you want to split the grocery bill? I do not cook, but I like milk and tea and biscuits on a regular basis.”</p><p>John let him change the subject. If Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it, that was his business.</p><p>~</p><p>The weather was shite, rain slapping diagonally against the windows, but they were out of milk. John Watson hadn’t survived the bloody sands of Afghanistan just to suffer a subpar cuppa, so off to the stores it was.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, he yanked on his coat. “Be back in a bit,” he called, though he honestly wasn’t sure if Sherlock was even in, and thumped down the stairs.</p><p>The wind blustered the door from his grasp to bang loudly against the wall before he wrestled it shut behind him along with a muttered “Sorry,” before he hunched his body sideways as best he could against the cold rain and began to walk. </p><p>He didn’t really notice when the car first slid up to him, but as it slowed to match his pace, he looked over. Sleek and black, with dark tinted windows. It looked very expensive. </p><p>Definitely not someone he knew.</p><p>The door cracked open, and a man’s cool voice spoke to him from the shadows. “Doctor John Watson. Please, get in.”</p><p>John narrowed his eyes, trying to peer inside, but the interior was dark and rain was dripping from his eyelashes. “Sorry, do I know you?”</p><p>“We have a… common interest.”</p><p>The voice sounded amused, and John decided he didn’t like it. “I really don’t think we do,” he retorted, and began to walk again, stomping heavily into a deceptively deep puddle. There was water in his sock now, he could feel it squelching against his toes.</p><p>The car continued to crawl alongside him. “I really do insist. Don’t be stubborn, Dr. Watson. Would you really prefer to walk? The weather is quite inclimate.”</p><p>A gust of wind rattled him, and a particularly fat drop of rain slapped - cold - into John’s ear.</p><p>John Watson bit off an expletive, and got into the car.</p><p>The seat facing the driver was occupied, so he took the one opposite. A man, balding with a severe, hawklike expression, met his eyes. An attractive woman in a smart suit sat beside him, her face lit by the glow of her blackberry. She did not look up.</p><p>“Your new roommate is a curious man, Dr. Watson.”</p><p>Cold water trickled down the back of John’s neck. “Don’t see how that’s any business of yours. If you want to talk to him, he’s got a bloody website.”</p><p>“He’s not much interested in a correspondence with me, I’m afraid. I rather thought perhaps you could keep me updated in his stead. Nothing too personal, mind you. And you would, of course, be compensated.”</p><p>John stared at him blankly. “Sorry… you want me to spy on my new roommate?”</p><p>The man made a little moue of distaste. “Such a dramatic word.”</p><p>“... I’m not spying for you, and it’s very creepy that you would ask.”</p><p>The creepy man raised one eyebrow. “I haven’t named a sum yet.”</p><p>“There is no sum,” snapped John. “I’d like to get out now.”</p><p>“Surely you realize you can’t live off your army pension forever.”</p><p>“Suppose I’ll have to take a loan out against basic human decency,” snarled John. “Are we done here?”</p><p>The man waved a lazy hand at the window.</p><p>They were pulled up in front of the Tesco. It was still raining.</p><p>“Right,” said John, yanked the door open.</p><p>“I’m sure we’ll meet again, Dr. Watson,” called the smug man.</p><p>“Really rather not,” muttered John, and slammed the door shut.</p><p>~</p><p>He showed up for his first day at work with a black eye.</p><p>“My god,” said the receptionist. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“Late night. Got in a scuffle with some muggers, had to go to the police station for a statement.” said John. He doesn’t mention that he and Sherlock had hidden in a dumpster for two hours waiting for the drug deal to go down prior to the mugging they’d stumbled into. </p><p>His shoes will never be the same, and he hasn’t felt this alive since before he got shot.</p><p>“Well, you’ve got a 7am with a Mrs. Hadley, she says she’s got the sniffles…”</p><p>~</p><p>John was quite pleased. He had the day off, and he fully intended to celebrate the utter absence of coughing, fevers, and snotty noses with an indulgent day in. He had picked up a new crime novel on his way home, one which Sherlock had not yet had the chance to get his hands on, and therefore could not spoil prematurely.</p><p>“Boring,” Sherlock declared, reading his day’s plans at a glance.</p><p>Ignoring him, John settled into his chair with a contented sigh, book in hand. “Some of us like boring. No cases, I take it?”</p><p>Sherlock plucked a forlorn note from the violin in his hands. “Nothing yet, but one can always hope. If nothing comes up, I’ll have no excuse sufficient to avoid teaching at 3pm.”</p><p>John looked up, surprised. Sherlock didn’t mention his yoga gig often. He wanted to ask more, but… he didn’t want to pry. Well, he did, but he was certain Sherlock would have no compunction about calling him out on his rudeness. Ironic, how those rules didn’t seem to apply to his own inquiries. “Well. I suppose I could go shopping, have dinner in the works when you get home.”</p><p>“Cooking, John? Feeling domestic?”</p><p>“We can’t survive on toast and Mrs. Hudson’s generosity,” John protested. “What about spaghetti?”</p><p>Sherlock snorted, as if to disagree - <em> he could subsist entirely on toast and the occasional baked good, thank you very much </em>.</p><p>John nodded to himself decisively. Spaghetti then. He could do that. Maybe even… meatballs. The frozen kind, that you could warm up in the microwave. And that parmesan that came in the shaker can.</p><p>He flipped his book open to the first page, but his eyes wandered over to the yoga mat rolled up by the door. He just couldn't help but <em> wonder </em>.</p><p>“It was a condition from my instructor,” Sherlock said. “For agreeing to take me on as a student. Part of my addiction therapy.” </p><p>John jerked his eyes from the mat to Sherlock. “What?”</p><p>“Me, teaching yoga. You were wondering very loudly.” Sherlock twanged another note from the violin strings.</p><p>“Oh. Um. I’m surprised you didn’t find another teacher.”</p><p>Sherlock scowled. “I did. Immediately. But-” he bit at the word, “She was the best.”</p><p>“Ah,” said John, and tried not to smile. Of course. “Can’t do things by half, then.”</p><p>“And waste my time? Intolerable.”</p><p>“Still. Must have been difficult for you.”</p><p>“Don’t patronize me, John.”</p><p>“I’m not! I’m actually impressed. That you stuck with it.” He cleared his throat. “You saw me. I gave it a go and immediately gave up.”</p><p>“Yes, well, it was a stupid idea. Not suited to you at all. You did get a new therapist, didn’t you?”</p><p>“Well…”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really, John. Surely it can’t be that hard to call them up and ask for a different one.”</p><p>John sputtered. “Look who - you don’t call anyone!”</p><p>“Inefficient. I can type much faster.”</p><p>John frowned at his phone. His next therapy session was in two days.</p><p>“John,” Sherlock said. John looked up. “Cancel your therapist.”</p><p>John felt mullish. “Why?”</p><p>“I already told you!”</p><p>“No, it’s - why do you even care?”</p><p>“I don’t!” Sherlock thrust the phone at him. “What if I need you for a case? Your time is more valuable to me. Stop wasting it on her.”</p><p>John cancelled his next session.</p><p>When they asked if he wanted to schedule with a new counsellor the next month, he mumbled a noncommittal “Maybe,” and was grateful to drop the matter and instead focus on his spaghetti plans.</p><p>Fifteen minutes before Sherlock’s class wraps up, John was feeling downright cheerful - there was a red sauce bubbling away on the stove, the pasta just about ready to go in the water, and he’d even buttered up a loaf of garlic bread that was warming in the oven. In a burst of good humor, he’d even put on some Italian opera, blaring out the tinny speakers of his laptop as he bustled around for plates and napkins.</p><p>He was just pouring the steaming noodles into the colander when the door burst open.</p><p>“Perfect timing,” he called to Sherlock. “How was class?”</p><p>“Boring,” yelled Sherlock, taking off his coat and sweeping into the kitchen. “Smells good. I brought wine.”</p><p>And so he had, a nice bottle of red wine. Sherlock reached up and pulled two wine glass from the cupboard - John hadn’t realized they even had any.</p><p>After a moment, he realized that Sherlock was humming along with the opera.</p><p>“You know this song?”</p><p>“Of course,” said Sherlock, and uncorked the wine with a pop and a flourish.</p><p>~</p><p>After their spaghetti dinner, they retired to the living room, and Sherlock pulled out a violin and played a beautiful song.</p><p>“You’re very good,” said John.</p><p>Sherlock seemed pleased. “I can play music by ear.”</p><p>“Can you play the spaghetti song? From earlier?”</p><p>Sherlock gave him a scandalized look. “Do <em> not </em> refer to Puccini’s <em> Nessun Dorma </em> as the spaghetti song.”</p><p>But he did play it.</p><p>~</p><p>“I never see you doing yoga,” John said. “Around the flat.”</p><p>Sherlock gave him a blank look. “I assumed it would be inconvenient.”</p><p>John raised an eyebrow. “Inconvenient. More inconvenient than filling all our clean mugs with pig blood? More inconvenient than slicing frozen toes on our dining room table?”</p><p>“That’s hardly-”</p><p>“What about that noxious smoke bomb you set off in here last week? I had to stuff the edges of my door with a towel and open the window before it was tolerable enough to sleep! I was very cold, Sherlock!”</p><p>“Is that what this is? An excuse to re-address your grievances? And I didn’t <em> mean </em> for it to go off,” Sherlock added, with something strangely close to a pout.</p><p>“You didn’t even open the windows before you waltzed off,” John groused. ‘I came <em> home </em> to that stench.”</p><p>Sherlock sniffed.</p><p>John sighed. “What I’m getting at is that I'd much rather see you doing yoga in the living room than messing with anything unsanitary, incendiary, or volatile.”</p><p>Sherlock smirked. “Using big words, John?”</p><p>“I went to med school, you berk.”</p><p>~</p><p>Finding Sherlock upside down was, in every way, better than finding Sherlock shooting holes in their wall.</p><p>There was just one issue.</p><p>“You’re staring at my ass, John,” said Sherlock.</p><p>John flushed bright red, and physically turned himself away. “Right, sorry!”</p><p>“... it’s not that I mind. I just thought that you might.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You only date women, John.”</p><p>“Oh. Well. It’s just… easier, you know?”</p><p>“I do not,” said Sherlock dryly.</p><p>“... right. Well, um. You interested in men, then? Because that’s fine, obviously.”</p><p>“Just one,” said Sherlock. “At the moment. Not sure if he wants to do anything about it though.”</p><p>“Oh…” sighed John. Of course Sherlock had his eye on someone. Probably some fit bloke from his yoga studio.</p><p>“He likes to watch me.”</p><p>It was those damn leggings, no doubt. They were just so… form-fitting.</p><p>“... he’s also a bit of an idiot.”</p><p>“You say that about everyone,” said John, and tried very hard not to feel bitter about it.</p><p>“Yes, but right now I’m saying that to <em> you </em>.”</p><p>“What do-” John turned to see Sherlock glaring at him very intently. “You mean... me?”</p><p>“You’re already making me regret this. <em> Obviously </em> you, John.”</p><p>“But I’m…”</p><p>“Tolerable, yes.”</p><p>“Sherlock,” sighed John, trying not to smile. “Stop standing on your head and come kiss me.”</p>
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